


A Song To Be Sung

by Nightdog_Barks



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossover, Gen, Musicians, Singing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-01
Updated: 2008-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-18 04:58:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/185293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nightdog_Barks/pseuds/Nightdog_Barks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Benjamin Wilson meets a stranger who seems very, very familiar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Song To Be Sung

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Keeper (Agnates in Elysium)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/144927) by [Dee_Laundry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dee_Laundry/pseuds/Dee_Laundry). 



> This fic is an AU crossover between a tiny story of mine called [I'll Tell Thee Everything I Can](http://community.livejournal.com/house_wilson/1212418.html), in which Wilson has a son named Benjamin, and [](http://deelaundry.livejournal.com/profile)[**deelaundry**](http://deelaundry.livejournal.com/)'s brilliant "Jackverse" -- the world of [My Fathers' Son](http://deelaundry.livejournal.com/7091.html) and the [Keeper: Agnates in Elysium](http://deelaundry.livejournal.com/89618.html) series. Many thanks to **Dee** for so graciously allowing me to play in her sandbox. 1,838 words.

_**Houseficlet: A Song To Be Sung**_  
 **STATUS:** Crossposted to [](http://house-wilson.livejournal.com/profile)[**house_wilson**](http://house-wilson.livejournal.com/) on 1/1/08.  
 **TITLE:** A Song To Be Sung  
 **AUTHOR:** [](http://nightdog-writes.livejournal.com/profile)[**nightdog_writes**](http://nightdog-writes.livejournal.com/)  
 **PAIRING:** OMCs, House.  
 **RATING:** R, for some rough language.  
 **WARNINGS:** Yes, for a major character death, although in this story it has occurred far in the past.  
 **SPOILERS:** None.  
 **SUMMARY:** Benjamin Wilson meets a stranger who seems very, very familiar.  
 **DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
 **AUTHOR NOTES:** This fic is an AU crossover between a tiny story of mine called [I'll Tell Thee Everything I Can](http://community.livejournal.com/house_wilson/1212418.html), in which Wilson has a son named Benjamin, and [](http://deelaundry.livejournal.com/profile)[**deelaundry**](http://deelaundry.livejournal.com/) 's brilliant "Jackverse" -- the world of [My Fathers' Son](http://deelaundry.livejournal.com/7091.html) and the [Keeper: Agnates in Elysium](http://deelaundry.livejournal.com/89618.html) series. Many thanks to **Dee** for so graciously allowing me to play in her sandbox. 1,838 words.  
 **BETA:** My intrepid First Readers, with especial thanks to [](http://deelaundry.livejournal.com/profile)[**deelaundry**](http://deelaundry.livejournal.com/).

 **A Song To Be Sung**

  
"Look, Dad," Ben says, pressing the cell phone closer to his ear so he can hear House's low rumble. For perhaps the hundredth time, he wishes he'd brought his bug. Connections are so much clearer on the tiny device, but he'd forgotten it in the rush to get on the road. House is still talking as Ben switches phone hands in order to make the right turn into the pharmacy. His throat's starting to hurt, and there's no way he can sing tomorrow night with a sore throat.

"I agree," he says, slipping the Fox into a parking spot. He puts the car in park and turns off the ignition. "But see, Mom isn't -- "

The conversation (if a conversation can consist of one man talking) continues into the drugstore.

"No, Dad. No. Yeah."

The young guy behind the prescriptions counter smiles a little, obviously amused, and Ben grins back, pointing to the cell and silently mouthing the word "family." The guy nods solemnly, as if to say, _"Yeah, tell me about it."_

At last Ben snaps the phone closed. He stands for a moment, shaking his head, then raises both hands in mock defeat.

"What are you gonna do?" he asks rhetorically. "He thinks he knows it all, and the hell of it is, he's usually right."

The pharmacy guy nods. "I think all fathers are that way."

"Ah, he's not my real dad," Ben says. "My father died when I was four. I call him Dad 'cause it was easier to say than 'Uncle Greg' when I was little." He shivers a little -- like most drugstores, they've got the air conditioning set on "polar" -- then cocks his head. There's some awfully familiar music coming from the lilliput player the guy has set up next to him. Drums, flutes, rattles, a rush of sound, then the horn section and a clear tenor rising above the other instruments. The song is called "Fast In the Pocket," and he'd written it in a half-hour with the band's bus driver, Rusty Crawford.

He nods at the player.

"You like that?" he asks casually.

The pharmacy guy smiles.

"Yeah," he says. "They're good." He picks up the lilli's jewel case, angles it towards Ben, who squints at it as if he hasn't seen it a million times already. The cover shows D-mac, before he grew his goatee, half-turned away from the camera, the crown of feathers he's wearing seeming to glow like white flames. They'd worked for hours to get that effect, and after the shoot they'd treated the photographer and his crew to drinks at the Golden Elephant.

"Xochitl," Ben replies nonchalantly, knowing that in another second the pharmacy guy is going to spot him in the group shot on the back. It's the same shot _Down Beat_ used in their article on the newest New Fusion. Ben had bought dozens of copies and sent them to everyone he could think of. "Yeah, they're okay." He fingers the ballpoint stuck in the breast pocket of his unbuttoned button-down. Fans usually ask for autographs. And sure enough, the guy does it, right then -- that classic double-take that Ben has seen about a million times, the look that'll never get old. He pulls the pen from his pocket.

"Who would you like me to -- " he begins, but stops cold when the druggist opens his mouth and says ...

"Hey, you're David Trejo!"

Because, well, not only is David's skin several shades darker than Ben's -- a rich, warm mocha -- he's fat. Dave weighs three hundred pounds if he weighs an ounce, and they're always telling him to cut down, goddamn it, hasn't he ever heard of diabetes or heart disease or any of those other things Uncle Greg pounded into Ben's head as he was growing up?

"No," Ben grinds out. "I'm Benjamin Wilson. Founder and lead vocalist."

And the geek pharmacist grins. It's a big, shit-eating grin, and Ben blinks.

"I know," the drug guy says. "I was just yanking your chain."

For just a moment, Ben thinks about turning on his heel and just walking out, sore throat and cold medicine be damned. Fuck this shit. He doesn't need this, he's paid his goddamn dues.

"I'm sorry," the druggist says then. "Look, I apologize -- I didn't mean to upset you. Here -- is there something I can help you with?"

Ben makes a show out of thinking about it. "Sore throat," he says gruffly. "Got a set in Toronto tomorrow night."

"How bad is it?" the pharmacist asks, eyes sharpening with worry. "I have a rapid strep test I'm qualified to admin-"

"No, it's not that. Just scratchy and irritated." The penetrating gaze of the pharmacy guy seems to demand proof, and Ben is instantly annoyed. "I know my vocal chords. It's not an infection; it's a minor irritation I'm trying to nip in the bud."

After one last narrowing of the eyes -- damn, does this guy think he's someone's mother, or what? -- the pharmacist nods.

"I can help that," he says, and steps around the counter and heads down an aisle.

Ben stares after him, suddenly suspicious. He knows this guy, he's sure of it. But where, and when? One of the New York shows? Philly? The guy doesn't sound like he's from anywhere but the East Coast, so it can't be L.A. or Seattle.

"Here," the druggist says, and plunks a bottle of something down on the counter. "I'll print out the dosage. It'll soothe your throat; you'll sing like a nightingale. I promise."

Ben glares at the guy, trying to tell if he's being truthful or just an asshole -- he's had plenty of experience with Uncle Greg. The pharmacist _seems_ to be sincere; he's smiling at Ben with puppy-dog brown eyes, and again Ben gets that strong, _strong_ feeling that he knows this man, _really_ knows him. He looks at the guy's nametag, but maybe the sore throat is the precursor to a fever, because all Ben can make out on the stamped tag is a capital "J" and an upright squiggle that might be a "k."

"Thanks," Ben says, hefting the brown medicine bottle. "What do I owe you?"

"A song," the guy says, and Ben groans inwardly.

"Sure you just don't want an autograph?" Crap, the guy's gonna ask for something that he has to reach the high notes for, "Lakes of Inish," maybe, or "Trecento," make his throat hurt even more. Asshole.

"No," the pharmacist says. "I've got the great Ben Wilson here in person, and I want to hear something the regular audience never gets to. Not that 'Fast In the Pocket' and 'Sandia Dawn' and 'Crooked Row to Hoe' aren't great." He runs a hand through his brown hair, making it stick up around the edges, and smiles. "But how about something special? Doesn't have to be a whole production number -- just a couple of verses."

"Okay," Ben replies slowly, weighing his options. "Okay." He glances around. Weird -- the drugstore seems to be deserted, even though he feels sure there were four or five other customers here when he came in. He clears his throat, and the pharmacist reaches out a hand and clicks the lilliput player off.

"Here's something different," Ben says, and raises an eyebrow in imitation of House's sardonic quirk. "Write it down -- Benjamin Wilson, lounge lizard."

 _"New York on Sunday,  
Big City taking a nap --  
Slow down, it's Sunday!  
Life's a ball, let it fall in your lap!  
If you've got troubles,  
Just take them out for a walk.  
They'll burst like bubbles  
In the fun of a Sunday in New York!"_

It's a joyful, bouncy tune, but Ben sings it softly, and more slowly than the notation calls for. It's an old song, made famous by Bobby Darin, and Uncle Greg has told him his father loved songs like this.

 _"You can spend time without spending a dime,  
Watching people watch people pass!  
Later you pause, and in one of those stores  
There's that face next to yours in the glass!  
Two hearts stop beating,  
You're both too breathless to speak!  
Love smiles her greeting,  
Then the dream that has seen you through the week  
Comes true on Sunday in New York!"_

Ben imagines his father singing to him, Jimmy Wilson cradling his newborn son in his arms, funny showtunes and jazz classics instead of lullabies.

Uncle Greg had never wanted to talk about it.

 _"Love smiles her greeting,  
Then the dream that has seen you through the week  
Comes true on Sunday in New York!  
Comes true on Sunday in New York!"_

The drugstore is silent, and Ben lets out a breath.

"Is that what you wanted?" he asks.

The pharmacist isn't looking at Ben; he's gazing into the distance instead, eyes all soft with some kind of remembered affection. It's another look that Ben knows well. He sees it a lot on the patrons' faces in the smaller clubs they play sometimes, when D-mac puts his trumpet down and croons out one of the slow ballads, like "Abe Lincoln's Blues" or "Lighthouse."

"Yeah," he says at last. "Yeah, that was great. Thanks." His eyes focus then, and he and Ben stare at each other for a long moment, brown eyes into blue.

"Okay then." Ben grabs the bottle of medicine. "I'll just be going now." A few steps into the aisle, he hesitates. "Hey -- you want some open tickets? A backstage pass? They'd be good for any of our concerts -- I can give you a couple, no problem."

The druggist smiles.

"No, that's okay," he says. "Church probably wouldn't be interested."

"Oh." Ben considers this, but only for a moment. It's not any of his business what church this guy attends. He needs to get back on the road -- he's supposed to meet D-mac and Elroy first thing in the morning to go over the program notes, and Keane Smight had promised to have the second-level miking and acoustics mapped out ...

"I'll see you around, then," he says, and as soon as it's out of his mouth he has no idea what he's just said. He'll _never_ see this random drugstore cowboy again.

He gets back in his car and fastens the seatbelt. As he pulls out of the parking lot he slips a lilli into the dashboard player. In a moment, a young man's voice, his future before him, fills the small car.

 _"Somewhere, beyond the sea ...  
somewhere, waiting for me  
my lover stands on golden sands  
and watches the ships that go sailin'"_

Benjamin Wilson hums softly, then begins to sing along.

 _"It's far -- beyond the stars  
it's near beyond the moon  
I know beyond a doubt  
my heart will lead me there soon"_

 _I know him,_ Ben thinks. _I know I do._ But soon enough the thought is lost as the miles roll past and the border crossing draws closer, and a memory takes its place. A single sentence, from an old story House had read aloud when Ben was five or six and tucked snug into bed, his dad's gruff voice rising and falling with the rhythm of the words.

 _"Begin at the beginning, and go on till you come to the end ..."_

And Ben pulls the ballpoint from his pocket and jots down the lyrics for a new song on the drugstore receipt.

~ the end.

  
 ** _NOTES:_**  
You can hear a snippet of Bobby Darin's "Sunday In New York" [here](http://www.last.fm/music/Bobby+Darin/_/Sunday+in+New+York), or read the lyrics [here](http://www2.uol.com.br/cante/lyrics/Bobby_Darin_-_Sunday_in_new_york.htm).  
"Beyond the Sea" may be heard [here](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m8OlDPqYBLw).  
The story quote at the end is from Lewis Carroll's _Alice in Wonderland_.

  



End file.
